


she can't make it on her own

by Tonight_At_Noon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Romance, Darcy Lewis-centric, F/M, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonight_At_Noon/pseuds/Tonight_At_Noon
Summary: In the midst of her parent's impending divorce, Darcy Lewis is excited about one thing: the literature club she's started. Except nobody shows up on the first day. Well, one person does, and his increased presence in Darcy's life forces her to question everything she ever believed about relationships and love.





	she can't make it on her own

**Author's Note:**

> What is this? A much, much longer version of my aimless one-shots only far more sexually explicit? Why, yes, I do believe so.
> 
> It's inspired by so many things. Books, poems, television shows. But I will leave you with this line from Fleabag: "I wish he'd just fuck me. All he wants to do is make love."
> 
> Enjoy.

 

**. **

_ oh, to see without my eyes _

_ the first time that you kissed me _

_ boundless by the time i cried _

_ i built your walls around me _

**. **

 

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You’re doing it again. Stop looking at me like I’ve just slaughtered your dog in front of you."

“Is that the look I’m giving you? I thought it was more along the lines of an Oliver look. You know, please sir, can I have some more. That kind of look.”

“Darcy.”

“Natasha,” Darcy says in an equally serious tone. Her red-haired, fiery-tempered best friend closes her locker and sighs deeply as if Darcy is an annoying little sister pestering her for attention. As if Darcy needs to be let down easy.

“I can’t do it,” Natasha repeats for the fifth time that day. The fifteenth time that week. “I don’t even like to read. I would be completely out of place.”

Darcy pushes off the locker she was resting against and follows Natasha towards the cafeteria. The crowded halls make it difficult for the shorter, stouter girl to keep up, but eventually she reaches Natasha’s side. “You read. I’ve seen you read.”

“Unless it’s for school, I don’t read,” she insists, walking into the cafeteria with her head held unusually high. 

She’s trying to get Steve Rogers to notice her. Which, to be fair, he does. The large football player stares after Natasha like a kind, bumbling dog. But so does every other boy in the vicinity, only their stares are more vicious. More predatory. Truly animal-like. 

Steve stands out in the crowd. Not only because of his size—he is at least fifty pounds heavier, all muscle, and two inches taller—but because he’s genuinely one of the good guys. And that’s what Natasha likes about him. Why she spends her mornings making herself look like the type of girl Steve Rogers would take home to meet his parents.

It’s also why he hasn’t done just that. He’s _too_ good in Darcy’s opinion. Afraid that he’ll burst into flames if he so much as brushes past a girl without her consent.

There is one boy not drooling after Natasha. One boy whose focus is trained on Darcy instead. He isn’t a jock—never played a sport in his life, though she happens to know he spends a lot of his off-hours in the school gym. He’s more of a troublemaker than the people surrounding him. But he’s Steve’s best friend, and that’s why the others let him sit with them. 

As they pass the jock table, Darcy meets his eye for just a second. And it’s enough to make her skin burst into goosebumps. 

If he’s not careful, others will notice.

“But I’ve seen you read when it isn’t for school,” says Darcy, rubbing her arms to get rid of the gooseflesh. The girls sit at a table the other end of the cafeteria, but Natasha has made sure Steve can still see her.

Natasha unwraps her cookies and cream flavoured protein bar—which Darcy can say with one-hundred percent accuracy tastes exactly like cardboard—and takes a bite. “Those are history books. Non-fiction. War journals and things like that. It’s completely different to the books you read. Mine are straight-forward and factual. Yours take effort to understand.” 

“But,” Darcy sputters, her brain not able to come up with a good counterargument. It’s true that Natasha’s obsession with history is different than her obsession with English literature. And it’s true that analysing _Animal Farm_ is different than analysing the works of Herodotus. But Darcy doesn’t want to do this alone. “What if no-one else shows up?”

“Please. There are plenty of other book nerds like you at this school. You won’t want me dumbing down the place.”

Looking around the lunch room, Darcy wonders which other students could have chosen her Lit Club as their after school activity. She put the flyers up earlier in the week, on the first day of school, on every cork board she could find. Every other Friday, she and the others— _please, please let there be others_ , she begs—will meet in the AV room nobody uses to discuss and dig deep into the books she spent all summer selecting for the reading list. 

English is her last subject on Odd Days for her senior year, which is good. She will be fresh from an atmosphere that encourages a healthy and thoughtful understanding of literature. Mr. Odinson’s lectures will prepare her nicely for the following hour. 

Provided Darcy's fear is simply that—a fear, not a fact. 

“Are you not eating?” Natasha asks, crumpling the protein bar wrapper. 

Darcy shakes her head. She’s too nervous to eat.

Natasha doesn’t argue with Darcy’s decision. Instead, she gets up to throw her rubbish away. Only, instead of tossing it in the bin directly behind them, she sashays in her 50s-style black dress towards the table where Steve sits. 

She can’t help but smile at her best friend’s blatancy. She has to give Natasha props. The girl is not afraid of her femininity the way Darcy is. Darcy, who wears crew-neck t-shirts to hide the giant chest her grandmother gave her. The grandmother on her mom’s side, who was dead long before Darcy could yell at her for passing on her bad genes. Darcy, who wears her glasses even though her dad caved and let her get contacts when she was fourteen when she believed she was brave enough to use them. 

It isn’t that she has no confidence. Or that she isn’t brave. Or that she thinks Natasha’s way of going about life is wrong. She is confident. She is brave. And Natasha’s life is great. It boils down to Darcy’s fear of rejection. The rejection she faces almost daily from people who are meant to love her. 

College is what she keeps telling herself. The second she leaves for college, she will open herself up like Natasha. She will embrace her curves and the lips she thinks are too large. But for now, she will focus on excelling in her final year of high school. 

Darcy watches Natasha start a conversation with Steve, but soon her attention moves to the person sitting beside the golden boy. Bucky Barnes. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, dark stubble stamped over his jaw and cheeks. His pink lips pull up to the right when he catches her watching him. She looks quickly away as if she’s been found doing something she should not, under any circumstances, be doing. 

The bell signalling her lunch period’s end sounds off just as her heart settles. Natasha departs the cafeteria with Steve at her side. She turns covertly and mouths _yes_ , to which Darcy responds with a lame thumbs-up.

Darcy waits to leave. She waits for Bucky to leave. Only after his shadowy figure disappears out of the doors does Darcy exit the room.

 

**.**

_now i'm prone to misery_

_the birthmark on your shoulder reminds me_

**.**

 

3:00, the end of the school day, creeps closer. Excitement and nerves squeezing her insides, Darcy clutches the edges of her desk as Mr. Odinson continues his rant on the “idiotic, closed-minded, atrocious woman” currently trying to ban _To Kill a Mockingbird_ from all New York public _and_ private schools. The last fifteen minutes of class has been centred around the banning of books in the 21st century. Mr. Odinson calls it a brainless censorship of art which can lead to a suppression of information that has the ability to greatly damage society’s development. 

Darcy agrees.

She agrees with a lot of what Mr. Odinson, the Nordic godlike man, has to say. He is clever and concise and helpful. It doesn’t hurt that he’s also one of the most attractive human beings ever to grace this earth. 

“But Thor . . .”

Darcy nearly groans out loud. She glares across the room at the source of the interruption. Bucky. A staple in her English classes since the seventh grade. 

He looks directly at her, as if not talking to their teacher at all. As if he’s really talking to her.

Mr. Odinson leans against his desk and crosses his arms. There is a look of half-amused dread on his face. “Please, James, do not refer to me by my first name,” he says. Darcy smiles, turning away from Bucky. He hates it when people call him James. “Now, what is it you have to say?”

“Well, the woman does bring up some good points,” Bucky says. Darcy thinks she visibly sees Mr. Odinson’s eyes bug.

“And, uh, what would those points be? Do elaborate.”

“That there is a lot of racially insensitive language in the book. Should fourteen-year-olds really be exposed to that kind of language? If we aren’t allowed to use the words, why are we allowed to read them?”

There’s a smugness to Bucky’s argument that sets a fire under Darcy. “That’s completely besides the point!” she exclaims, twisting her whole body in Bucky’s direction. The entirety of the classroom jumps in surprise. 

Bucky’s neck turns slowly towards her. He cocks his head. A challenge. “What is the point, then? The woman cited racially charged language as the reason for her challenge, didn’t she?”

Darcy rolls her eyes. Rolls them so hard it hurts. This is her confidence bursting forth. Her Natasha-level not-giving-a-fuck what others think. “Yes, but that’s a stupid reason to challenge the book. These words are still tossed around carelessly by kids who don’t know any better. Whose parents don’t think to stop with the racist language every once in a while. No book is going to make them use the words more, and taking it away won’t make them use them less. The issue isn’t books, it’s society’s continued acceptance of casual racism.” 

Darcy pauses momentarily to take in a deep breath. 

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is such an important telling of a time when people of colour were treated so, so horribly. It’s a testament, a warning. This woman is an idiot if she thinks Lee wrote the book in order to express her secret racial prejudices”— Darcy is rudely cut off by the bell. Its loud clanging noise instantly distracts her classmates.

Everyone scrambles to gather their supplies, racing to the be the first out of the room. Darcy shrinks a little. She was just getting to the best part of her counterargument. 

“Don’t forget to read the first part of _Beloved_ over the weekend. We’ll be discussing it in full on Tuesday, and I expect each one of you to talk!” Mr. Odinson’s cry goes mostly unheard in the rush, but Darcy is still sitting even when everyone else has disappeared. Her English teacher pushes off from his desk and comes over to Darcy. “You know he only says those things to get a rise out of you, Darcy. Why do you let him toy with you like that?”

It’s true, of course. Bucky Barnes has enjoyed mocking Darcy’s adoration for books since they met. The whole school knows of the incident in the 9th grade when they were arguing over the most important theme in _The Great Gatsby_. It is the only time Darcy has ever been sent to the principal’s office. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault,” Darcy complains, shoving her books inside her backpack, “he’s so good at pushing my buttons. I can’t help being passionate about books. He, on the other hand, can most certainly help being such a dick.”

Mr. Odinson laughs. “I’m not so sure about that.” He looks at his watch. “Aren’t you late for your first Lit Club meeting?”

In the heat of her outburst, Darcy had managed to forget why she had been terrified and eager for the bell to ring. She stands immediately, startling Mr. Odinson. 

_Shit_. Late on her first day. Not a good impression.

“Right. Perfect.” Darcy slings her backpack on and walks towards the door. “And I’ll have those chapters read by Tuesday, Mr. Odinson.”

He smiles at her and she has to fight not to melt. Blonds are her weakness. “How many times have you read _Beloved_ , Darcy?”

“Um . . .” she says sheepishly, “this will be my, let’s see . . . this will be my seventh time.”

“Go to your meeting,” Mr. Odinson dismisses, that breathtaking smile still on his face. He shoos her away with his left hand which has recently taken on a golden band. 

“Bye, Mr. Odinson,” calls Darcy as she marches with false positivity in the direction of her locker. Once she’s grabbed her itinerary for the hour and the lunch bag filled with snacks she’s too sick to even look at, she heads for the AV room. 

When she reaches the door, she wonders how many people are waiting for her. How many are as hopeful as her to for a life-changing literary journey. 

Three people? Five? Ten would be preferable, but she will be okay with less. 

She is caught wholly off guard when the door swings open and the only person inside the small, windowless AV room is Bucky Barnes. He sits in the chair directly opposite the door, in the circle of chair she set up during her free period. He’s taken off his sweater to reveal a _Beatles_ shirt.

Her favourite band. 

Darcy’s grip on the door handle tightens. Mainly to stop herself collapsing. She frowns, her entire face bunching. “What the hell are you doing here?” she spits. “This is the room for my Lit Club. Get out.”

“Aw,” he mewls, like a fucking cat, pouting his full lips, “but the posters you scattered all around the school said it was open to anyone and everyone.”

Releasing the door handle, Darcy wobbles into the room. The door slams shut behind her. “Didn’t you read the fine print? It names you as the only exception.”

“I’ve got a picture.”

“A what?” Darcy stops just short of reaching him. She is so short that their eyes are nearly level even when he’s sitting. His are filled with mischief.

“I had a feeling you’d try kicking me out, so I brought proof that you can’t. This is a school club. You can’t exclude me,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He fiddles with it and shows Darcy a picture of one of the many posters she put up earlier in the week. “I’m not afraid to go to Principal Coulson with this.”

“Yeah, well,” flounders Darcy, knocking Bucky’s hand down, “it’s _my club_. I can do whatever I want, and I don’t want you here.”

His eyes swerve around the room. “Maybe. But without me, you’ll be all alone.”

Darcy follows his eyes, her chest burning. Her stomach filling with large-winged butterflies. 

Nobody else is there.

“Did you scare the others away?” she accuses. “You’re such an ass, Bucky. You don’t even like books! Why are you here? To torture me?”

“Right, because I live to make your life miserable.”

“It sure as hell seems that way right now. We have a rule, you know, and you’re currently breaking it.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow into small slits. He looks like a snake ready to unhinge its jaws and attack. Darcy swallows thickly. Those butterflies are fluttering frantically up her oesophagus. “ _Frankenstein_ is up first, yes?” he asks. He reaches blindly down, pulling something from his backpack. “Because I’ve got my favourite copy right here. It was my grandfather’s. He loved this book. Read it to me dozens of times when I was a kid.” He holds up the copy. Its tattered pages briefly distract Darcy.

“But in class,” she says helplessly.

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, I fool around a lot in class. It’s fun to ruffle your feathers,” he says, and Darcy’s throat closes around the butterflies as her skin flares. “But ask any English teacher and they’ll tell you I’ve gotten straight As all my life in the subject. And about the rule being broken.” He stands slowly, tauntingly, putting the book carefully on the seat beside his as he gets to his full height. “You’ve been dodging my calls all week. I’m getting desperate here.”

“Bucky,” she says, his name trembling in her ears. 

“Darcy,” he mimics. He bends down. His face gets closer and closer and closer to hers with each passing second. “If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

She wants him to stop. The rule—they’re breaking the rule. The one rule they agreed upon two years ago. 

But she doesn’t actually want him to stop. She isn’t strong enough to want him to stop.

Shaking her head, she throws her arms around his neck to speed up the process and kisses him. She gasps as their lips touch, as if surprised by her own boldness, and he takes advantage of her open mouth. His warm tongue slides between her teeth and tangles with her own. He tastes like apples. 

How does he always taste like apples?

Darcy’s heart races. It pounds against her ribs. She knows he can hear it. Feel it. She knows, because she can hear and feel his. 

His burning hand reaches underneath the hem of her red shirt. Fingers grip the flesh of her hip and trace upwards towards the band of her bra. Now would be the time to tell him to stop. If that was what she wanted. 

Darcy keeps her mouth shut. No, she keeps it open. But she turns off her brain as Bucky pulls away from her for just a moment in order to tear her shirt off. Her glasses fly off, but she doesn’t care. It’s better when she can’t quite see him. It helps ease the guilt that will surely hit later. 

Next goes his shirt, then they’re both scrambling to unbutton the other’s jeans while simultaneously toeing off their shoes and stealing sloppy, wet kisses. He ticks her zipper down first. Whooping quietly in success, Bucky picks her up and takes her to one of the desks she shoved to the back of the room earlier. He lays her down. Gently. 

He’s so gentle. And so soft. Rough boys like him shouldn’t be so soft.

Bucky smiles at her. It’s a mixture of a smile. There’s triumph in it. Teasing, because as he shoves down her jeans and her pants, he brushes the pad of his thumb against the soft apex of her thighs, making her squeal. And there’s happiness too. 

That’s the part she can’t bear to look at. So, she kisses that smile, closing her eyes as she hears him rip open the condom wrapper. Sighing in relief, gripping the short strands of his hair so tight she’s worried they’ll snap, as he enters her.

 

**.**  

_the first time that you touched me_

_oh, will wonders ever cease_

_blessed be the mystery of love_

**.**

 

He’s a good lover. He lets her come first. He _makes sure_ she comes first. Even when that’s not necessarily what she’s after, he works overtime to get her there. That afternoon is no different. And this time, she’s chasing it. Hips rising to meet his, toes curled, mind empty of everything except how good this feels, she unravels in his arms. Seconds later, he lets out a soft groan, his face buried in the crook of her neck, and he collapses on top of her.

Stroking the sodden ends of his hair, Darcy stares up at the AV room ceiling. The florescent lights hurt her eyes. She keeps her eyes open as the light singes her retinas, and when she blinks bursts of purple light scatter across the ceiling. 

Bucky kisses her neck. Slipping out of her, he carefully removes the used condom and reaches for something next to Darcy’s head. A tissue. He folds the tissue over the condom and tosses it at the bin near the door. When it goes in, he turns to her, grinning.

God, he’s beautiful. Especially when he’s happy. She forgets that about him when they spend too long apart. 

Bucky pulls up his jeans and puts his shirt back on before gathering the scattered items belonging to Darcy and handing them to her. She thanks him and hops off the desk. Dressing quietly, she begins to feel that familiar pit of regret blossom in her belly. 

“I’m sorry no-one else showed up,” he says, collecting Darcy’s glasses from the floor and putting them on her face. He cups her cheeks. “I was fully prepared to have a conversation about _Frankenstein_ , but when nobody else appeared . . .” He trails off, kissing her softly. 

Darcy keeps her eyes open. “Yeah, no. I get it,” she says as their lips separate. She puts on a smile. “If you want to keep showing up here, though, I do think we should designate some time to actual Lit Club activities.”

“Clit club?” he says mockingly, releasing her face.

“Yes. That is exactly what I said.”

“What sort of Lit Club activities are we talking about?”

Darcy slips her shoes on. “You know, proper stuff. Analysing the themes. Passages. Talking about how the interpretations of certain novels has changed over the years. Like, how Richardson’s _Pamela_ was once taken by feminists in the 70s and regarded as true feminist literature, but now women like to burn it for its misogyny and rape-y-ness.” She zips up her backpack with the uneaten snacks still inside. She turns to Bucky still standing by the desk. He’ll clean it once she’s gone. “Things like that,” she says.

“Not things like this.” He points between them and the desk. 

The regret grows another stalk. “Not like that,” she agrees. “We can’t do that again. The rule, Bucky.”

“The rule,” he acknowledges. “Now run along before someone catches us in the same room together.”

Darcy bids him goodbye and leaves the room, searching in her backpack for her keys. 

The rule. 

She remembers the day they came up with it. After the third time. Back then, she saw their encounters as mistakes. Repeated mistakes. But you can only make so many mistakes before they start looking purposeful. Feeling purposeful. 

_We can’t be seen together_ , she had said.

_But we go to school together_. _People see us together all the time_. _We even have class together_.

_Then_ , _we can’t be seen together in a situation where it looks like we might be something_.

_Something_ , he had said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. _What does that mean_?

_It means people have to think we don’t like each other_. _People can’t catch on_. 

It had taken him a long time to agree. 

Since the rule had been founded, she always made sure she followed it. Bucky was the troublemaker. The one who forgot. She figured it was because he enjoyed seeing her squirm in a situation where she could do nothing lest she be the one breaking the rule. 

But today, they were both at fault. Anyone could have walked in. She hadn’t remembered to lock the door.

Inside her car, Darcy switches to the AUX cable and plugs in her phone. _Abbey Road_ instantly starts playing. Humming along to “Come Together,” Darcy drives home in a puddle of guilt. 

 

**. **

_ how much sorrow can i take _

_ blackbird on my shoulder _

**. **

 

Darcy is last in Mr. Odinson’s classroom again the day of the next Lit Club meeting. She takes her time returning her handwritten notes to her binder. Takes her time capping her assortment of different colour pens. Takes her time morosely closing _Beloved_ and putting her supplies in her bag. 

“Why are you not rushing for your second Lit Club meeting?” Mr. Odinson asks, peering up from where he sits grading their pop quizzes. 

“I don’t think anyone’s going to show up today.” And by _anyone_ she means _Bucky_. The boy who isn't even at school. Not a rarity—he skipped a lot, especially the older they got—but they have a meeting. A commitment. 

“What a shame. I’d join you, but I have to finish marking these up and then my wife’s office is holding an end of summer party.”

Darcy’s eyes linger on Mr. Odinson’s wedding ring. “Right. Wife.” She shakes her head and stands. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Have a good time at the party, Mr. Odinson.”

“I will, Darcy. I hope you have more success at the next Lit Club meeting,” he says, his politeness putting a smile on Darcy’s face. “And well done on the quiz.” He winks as she exits the room.

Natasha is waiting for her at her locker. She looks far too happy.

“Guess who’s giving me a ride home,” she says giddily, snatching Darcy’s phone out of Darcy’s back pocket. Darcy hears the sounds of her Solitaire app opening. 

Opening her locker, Darcy carefully sorts out the textbooks and binders and notebooks she needs to take home. “I’ve no clue. Give me a hint.”

“Steve Rogers.”

“Oh, well, with that kind of hint . . . hm, is it Bruce Banner?” 

“Ha. Ha. Ha. He’s just pulling his car around,” Natasha says as the Solitaire sound effects are replaced by “She Came In Through the Bathroom Window.” “Someone named JB is trying to call you.” Natasha shines Darcy’s phone in her face. “Are you friends with Justin Bieber?”

“No,” Darcy says harshly, grabbing her phone and answering the call. She ignores Natasha’s confused look. “Why are you calling me? I’m still at school.”

“What, no _hello_?” Bucky pauses, waiting for her to greet him, but she keeps her mouth closed. “Fine, no _hello_. I’m pulling into the student lot now. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t leave.”

Darcy walks a few paces away from Natasha. Far enough away so her friend can’t hear. “What?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t miss the meeting.”

“But you could miss everything important.”

“The Literature Club is important,” he says, and she hears too much sincerity in his voice. “I’m here. I’ll meet you in the AV room. And I made sure not to bring any condoms, so there’s no chance we repeat last meeting's mistake.”

He hangs up before she can get another word in. Darcy presses her phone to her forehead and breathes in a deep, soothing breath. 

“Who’s JB?” Natasha asks.

Darcy returns to her locker in order to close it. “No-one of consequence. Have fun with Steve Rogers,” she says. “I’ve got to sort something out in the AV room.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow for movie night!” calls Natasha as Darcy makes her escape. 

Bucky is already inside the AV room, sitting at the small table she set up earlier. No more circle of chairs. It’s closer to the student parking lot than it is to Darcy’s locker, but there is sweat running down the side of his face. Like he ran to get there before her. She closes the door softly and ignores him as she prepares the snacks she brought. Just enough for the two of them, because she has accepted defeat. No-one else at the school gives a flying fuck about literature. And if they do, they sure as hell don’t want her running a club about it.

Placing the various snacks—strawberries, sugar cookies, and a couple of packets of Lays salt and vinegar crisps, which she grudgingly knows are his favourite—on the table, Darcy takes her seat opposite Bucky. She puts her copy of _Frankenstein_ on the table as well. Bucky does the same, smiling lazily at her.

“What do you want to start with?” he asks. “I think we should start with how there’s never been a successful adaptation of _Frankenstein_.”

“That’s not necessarily true. 1931’s _Frankenstein_ was preserved by the Library of Congress in the ‘90s,” she says, knowing full well this is not why she came to this room. She needs to talk to him. About serious things. But talking about _Frankenstein_ is so much easier.

Bucky shakes his head. “That movie doesn’t count as an accurate adaptation. Shelley’s book has no hunchback assistant. They even changed Frankenstein’s name! To Henry. To Henry _over_ Victor.”

Swallowing her pride, Darcy interrupts him before he can go on a tangent. “Why did you show up here?” 

The pretty smile slips off Bucky’s face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You weren’t at school today. So, why show up just for this?”

“Would you rather I didn’t show up? Would you rather have been alone?” 

This why they only ever have sex. Why there’s never any conversation. They butt heads too easily. He said it himself, he likes ruffling her feathers. 

It would never work between them.

“The rule, Bucky,” she says firmly.

“Oh, fuck the rule! The rule doesn’t mean anything in this context.” Lines appear on his heavy forehead. “I don’t like school, okay? You know that about me. Everyone fucking knows that about me. But, like I said before, I love books. I came here today because I want to talk about _Frankenstein_ with someone who isn’t going to grade me. Jesus, Darcy. Do you not want me here?”

Darcy is thrown by his small outburst. It takes a second for her to come up with something to say in response. “No,” she says, and she can’t stop herself before she adds, “I like having you here.”

“Okay, then.” The smile returns. His forehead smoothes out, like a crumpled peace of paper that is finally free of creases. He looks right again. Unbroken. “Let’s start that again. I think there has never been a successful adaptation of _Frankenstein_.”

 

**. **

  _lord, i no longer believe_

_drowned in living waters_

_caused by the love that i received_

**.**

 

Bucky is in deeper than her. He has swum to the bottom of the Marianas Trench while she floats just below the surface. 

Okay, that’s a lie. He’s not that invested. But it’s getting harder and harder to deny the looks he gives her when they pass in the halls. The way he touches her face when they’re spent and lying tangled on the floor or the bed or the bathtub. Like he wants to know her. Wants her to know him. Like by smoothing his thumb against her sweaty cheek they’ll be more connected than they were when his cock was inside of her. 

She never meant for it get to this point. To reiterate, she fully intended for their first tryst to be their only tryst. She hadn’t wanted to go to that party in 10th grade, but Natasha dragged her there. Then Natasha left her sitting alone by the empty pool. Then Bucky Barnes, someone she had disliked just a little bit for as long as she could remember, had come out and started talking about things. And the moonlight reflecting off the water hit his face likes ripples of the milky way, and she kissed him. 

And he kissed her back, and she liked the way he tasted like apples and the way he asked before touching her breasts. Natasha left without her a couple of hours later thinking she had gotten a ride with her dad, but really she was in the pool house—she hadn’t known people in New York City could have pool houses—naked and wincing with Bucky Barnes on top of her. 

He took her home on the subway that night. Kissed her before she went inside. 

The no-strings-attached angle was her idea all along. She thinks now, two years on, that he agreed just so he could spend more time with her. Because having her like this—emotionally unavailable and half-depressed—is better than not having her at all. For the most part, he’s learned to keep his distance. Their conversations are never personal. She knows nothing about his family. She’s never even been to his house. If they’re having sex, it’s either at her place, or somewhere else they know they won’t be caught. She doesn’t know why people call him Bucky. He doesn’t know that she is a middle-name-less child. 

Except things are starting to get fuzzy. Boundaries are slipping away or tearing apart completely. And she needs it to stop. Maybe completely. Cold turkey. 

“Hey, are you even listening to these suggestions?”

Darcy startles. Natasha sits in front of the television in Darcy’s living room with a pile of DVDs surrounding her. In the kitchen, Darcy’s parents can be heard arguing quietly. Every now and then, when they just can’t help it, one of their voices will rise to a shout. 

“Sorry,” Darcy says, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I didn’t think you were. You didn’t go _ooooh_ when I listed _Across the Universe_.”

“Ooooh,” sings Darcy, snatching the DVD case for her favourite movie. “I agree. Let’s watch _Across the Universe_. It’s been a while.”

Natasha pulls it from Darcy’s hands. “It’s been five weeks. We watched it on your birthday.”

“Five weeks is a long time,” Darcy pouts. “I usually watch it every other week.”

“How about _Life_?”

“Which one?”

“The Dane DeHaan and Robert Pattinson one.”

“Nah, that’s too sad. Is the Jake Gyllenhaal and Ryan Reynolds one somewhere there?”

Natasha searches the floor. “No. You leant it to someone, I think.”

“Oh, yeah. Shuri hadn’t seen it. I should get it back from her next week—I don’t think she ever watched it.” Darcy joins Natasha on the floor as the noise from the kitchen grows louder. She spots a yellow DVD case. “ _Safety Not Guaranteed_?”

“Yes, please! I must feed my weird attraction to Mark Duplass.”

Smiling, ignoring her parents, pushing down thoughts of Bucky, Darcy slips the DVD into the player and leans against the sofa beside Natasha. She wants popcorn, but getting it requires going into the kitchen. Darcy settles for no popcorn.

Midway through the movie, Natasha turns suddenly to her. 

“Steve kissed me last night on our date,” she gushes. “Sorry. I was going to wait for the movie to finish, but I’m just too excited.”

Darcy can tell. She doesn’t remember the last time her sex-positive best friend was this happy about a boy kissing her. 

“Was he good at it?” Steve Rogers does not strike her as the type of guy who gets a lot of practice.

Natasha nods. “Better than I expected. And he didn’t try anything, either. He was the perfect gentleman. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“I wanted it to be today, but then I remembered movie night.” Movie night is their weekly get-together. Nothing save illnesses and exams are allowed to get in the way. Boys are especially off limits. “But it didn’t matter. He had to go check on someone today anyway.”

“Check on someone?” Darcy finally bites the bullet and pauses the movie. 

“His friend? The good-looking one with the dimpled chin.”

“Bucky?” His name is out of Darcy’s mouth before she can swallow it.

Natasha snaps her fingers. “Yes! That guy.”

As casually as she can, all while her brain is telling her not to, Darcy asks, “Why does his friend need to be checked on? Is he okay?” 

“I don’t know. Steve didn’t give any specifics. He goes there every Saturday for some reason.” Natasha picks up the remote control. “Okay, now that I have gotten that out, let’s finish the movie.”

Aubrey Plaza’s character starts talking again, but Darcy’s mind is somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t be. 

What could be wrong with Bucky that he needs weekly check-ups from Steve?

_Not your place to know, Darcy_ , she tells herself. _What were you just saying about keeping him at arm’s length_?

With an annoying amount of effort, Darcy manages to wipe her head clean of Bucky Barnes and focus on the film for the rest of its runtime. 

As soon as Natasha leaves, her parents argument, whatever it is driving a wedge between them this time, explodes. Darcy escapes down the hall to her bedroom. Shutting the door, she collapses on the bed. The pile of homework she left when Natasha arrived greets her. Figuring she might as well finish it now, as a way of distracting herself from the fight continuing in the other room and the small voice squeaking Bucky’s name over and over in her mind, she pulls out her earphones and gets started on the outline for her _Beloved_ essay.

 

**.**

_now my riverbed has dried_

_shall i find no other_

**.**

 

The following Friday, Darcy rolls out of bed with sleep gluing her eyelids closed. It’s been like this all week, all thanks to her parents. 

That’s something else Bucky doesn’t know about her, if she’s so bent on keeping track. He doesn’t know that her parents hate each other. He doesn’t know the reason she kept going to him, seeking him out when she swore it was a one time, two time, three time thing was because of them. He doesn’t know the only reason they haven’t gotten divorce is because they think she needs a stable household before she leaves for university next fall. Only this is hardly what she would call a stable household. It’s more like the Murder House from _American Horror Story_. Filled with ghosts and secrets. 

She wishes they would just bite the bullet and split officially. They already sleep in separate beds. Well, her father sleeps on the floor of their room while her mom gets the bed. But they won’t, so her nights are spent trying to drown out their arguments. Someone as young as her shouldn’t be getting so little sleep. 

The early rising hour means she can shower, a task she typically designates for the evenings. She turns the hot water on high and plugs her phone into the small speaker Bucky insisted she keep after she spent a whole evening with him marvelling over it. Sufjan Stevens fills the room, coiling with the steam. With plenty of free time to waste, she goes all-out. Shaving, shampoo and conditioner, face mask. A mini spa morning to combat the tiredness and the aches and the pain in her chest.

Darcy climbs out of the shower to face a clouded mirror. Scrubbing at it, her reflection reveals the less than ideal side effects of sleep depravation. College will hopefully bring some reprieve. Unlike the majority of people she knows, she can’t wait to live away from her parents to get more hours sleep. Not fewer. All-night partying has never been her scene anyway. Parties in general aren't her scene.

After towel-drying her long, thick hair and slathering her body in rose-scented lotion, she goes to her room and finds an outfit to wear. Usually, she picks the first thing she sets her eyes on. Provided it’s a match. But this morning Darcy finds it difficult to decide as she swipes through the items in her closet. Maybe it’s the dull ache in her brain from a mostly sleepless night. Or the stress over the math test she has that day. Whatever the reason, she can’t shake the feeling that nothing she owns is right, and eventually she has to close her eyes and choose a shirt at random.

Cracking an eye, she pulls the long-sleeved, red shirt from its hanger. The soft fabric is nice against her fingers. She hasn’t worn this shirt in ages. Not since the night she first slept with Bucky. She does her best to avoid looking at it when going through her clothes. The memories it dredges up make her wiggle uncomfortably. But she’s never thrown it out. And she does a huge wardrobe clear out at the end of each season, donating the untouched pieces. 

Why hasn’t she thrown it out yet?

An unsettling feeling chills Darcy’s blood. Glancing at her alarm clock out of panic, she realises she’s running out of time, and instead of dwelling on the secret reason behind her keeping this shirt, she races to find a bra and pulls the sweater over her head. Surprisingly, it fits better than it did when she was 16. Is it possible her tits have grown even more since she finished puberty?

She shouts goodbye at her parents. Neither of them pauses their argument—about what does and does not constitute as recycling, of all fucking things—to acknowledge her. No matter. If she dies in a fiery car crash or in a school shooting, they’ll be the ones sorry they didn’t get a chance to say a final farewell. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she heads out the door. The drive to school is thankfully and surprisingly a quick one, and she pulls into the student parking lot with five minutes to spare. 

The day is mostly uneventful. Just busy. Madmen do not storm the cafeteria with military-grade weapons. By the time she reaches Mr. Odinson’s English class, Darcy has all but forgotten the source for her nearly overwhelming tiredness. To her surprise, Bucky is already seated when she arrives. Trying unreasonably hard to not look at him, she sits at her desk and faces the whiteboard, ignoring the sensation that she’s being watched. 

_Does he recognise the shirt_? she wonders. No. Boys don’t notice stuff like that. But Bucky isn’t just a boy. 

Thankfully, the bell saves her from worrying too much about the shirt. Mr. Odinson rises from his desk and goes to the whiteboard. _Pride and Prejudice_. He writes the Austen title in big, fancy letters that curl into one another. Darcy’s brain instantly snaps into learning mode. Despite all of her hangups about marriage and romance, _Pride and Prejudice_ is probably her favourite novel from the 19th century. After all, it’s where she got her name.

Mr. Odinson caps the dry erase marker and faces the class. His eyes are especially glassy blue today thanks to the sea-coloured tie around his neck. “ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” he says. “How many of you have read it?” Darcy’s hand goes up quick as lightning. She peers around the room. Only three other students have their hands up. One of them is Bucky. “Okay, and how many of you have seen a film adaptation? Namely the 2005 Joe Wright movie starring Keira Knightly.” Darcy looks again, and this time more than half the class has their hands raised. She does too—and so does Bucky—but at least she’s read the movie’s source material. 

Mr. Odinson laughs in a what-are-you-gonna-do sort of way. “Alright, alright, you can put your hands down. So, my understanding is that the majority of you know the basic characters and plot of this classic. Which is a good place to start. Now,” he says dramatically, “who is willing to give us an overview of the story?” Again, Darcy’s hand shoots upwards as if she’s a hungry zombie breaking out of a grave. “Miss Lewis. Go ahead.”

Several minutes later, the first class on _Pride and Prejudice_ is well underway. Even though they were supposed to have read half of it by today, Darcy can spot those who thought the Keira Knightly movie was enough of a source. _Should’ve gone for the ’95 miniseries_ , she thinks, smirking. 

Bucky has kept unusually quiet. She can’t help herself from glancing back at him every few minutes almost out of concern. But she looks away quickly each time, because each time his eyes lock on hers as if he’s been waiting for her to turn her head. 

“What do we think of Elizabeth’s initial refusal to marry Darcy?” Mr. Odinson asks. “Keep in mind, it’s the second proposal she’s turned down thus far.” He nods to Darcy’s raised hand.

“She’s really showing her strength with the refusals,” Darcy claims. “Customs in the 19th century dictate a woman must marry lest she be thrown on the streets to starve, as a woman is unable to inherit her father’s fortune. By saying no to Collins and Darcy, by looking not for money but for love, Elizabeth is essentially protesting this outdated and sexist tradition. She’s saying she would rather be destitute than marry for something as trivial as money.”

“You don’t think she’s just being a stubborn bitch?”

Darcy almost inhales her tongue. She whips around to face Bucky. “Excuse me?” 

“What?” he says lazily, leaning back against his chair and shrugging. “Think about it. Darcy—the book one, not you—is offering her a good life. Elizabeth, regardless of all of her protesting at this point in the novel, likes him. She’s just too prejudiced against the affluent to accept it. She’s so laser focused on hating Darcy—again, the book Darcy, not you—that she is willing to believe Wickham’s baseless lies”—

—“Who’s to say they’re baseless? Elizabeth has no reason to doubt Wickham’s intentions,” interrupts Darcy, blood boiling.

“No reason to doubt—Darcy, _you_ this time,” Bucky says heatedly, “Wickham is Elizabeth’s only source on the matter. Nobody else has claimed such bad things about Mr. Darcy. If she thinks the wonderful Charles Bingley is stupid enough to hang around with someone so vile and horrible, she’s blind with her own hatred. Which is something she’ll discover soon enough.”

“Okay.” Mr. Odinson steps forward. “That’s enough. We’re getting beyond the stopping point now.”

But Darcy doesn’t want to stop. So, she doesn’t. “Elizabeth is just looking out for herself. Darcy has been cruel to her and her family, and now someone has come along to confirm her worst fears. Why shouldn’t she trust Wickham at this stage?” 

“Because,” Bucky says, sitting straight and gripping the sides of his desk, “we should always be wary of those who confirm our worst fears of others. Who knows what their motivations could be.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Is that why you’re eighteen and still single?” Bucky says, vitriol lacing his words. A silence rushes over the room as if they’ve been coated in a thick blanket. 

Darcy stares at him. Clenching her jaw, she tries to find something to say, but she comes up empty. 

“That’s enough, James,” Mr. Odinson cautions. “One more peep out of you and you’ll be spending your lunch period’s next week with me.”

Bucky puts up his hands in surrender. Defeated, Darcy turns away from him. She can’t believe he got in the final word. The bastard. Her skin prickles. As if Bucky’s words have bitten her and left her with gaping wounds. Their teeth, she must admit, were sharp. His tone still rings in her ears. Bitter. Angry. At her? The book? 

Her.

But he knows why she’s single. Of all the people in the world, he is the one who knows. 

Except he doesn’t. Because she never tells him anything. And it’s not like she can transfer her thoughts to him via osmosis. If she’s silent, which she always is, then he isn’t receiving her signals. Darcy’s lack of a boyfriend stems from a decision she made when her parents first started fighting in front of her. Witnessing that level of hatred between two people who vowed to always love and cherish one another genuinely scared her. For all of the healthy relationships she has been exposed to her, her parents’ toxicity has cancelled them all out.

As Mr. Odinson is in the middle of assigning their reading for the following Tuesday, the bell rings. Darcy rises fast and exits the room within the initial rush of students. Bucky is going to get a stern talking to during the Lit Club meeting. 

“Hey, so, that was fun,” he says in her ear, sliding next to her as the crowd of people disperses.

_Was it, James_? she asks him with her eyes. _Was it really_? 

But he’s smiling the way he always does, and she allows him to follow her to her locker. Once she’s gathered the supplies for Lit Club, they make their way to the AV room side by side. A rare sight. A never-before-seen sight. Which is why, Darcy assumes, Bucky’s friend Sam approaches them from the opposite direction with his face bent in confusion. 

“And just what the hell are you doing hanging around with this asshole?” Sam asks, his question directed at her. “Don’t you know he’s got fleas?”

“Very funny, Sam,” Bucky says humourlessly, his arm going around Darcy’s shoulder.

Alarmed, Darcy moves quickly out of Bucky’s grasp. “I know he’s riddled with all sorts of diseases.”

Sam laughs. “You’re smart to not let him touch you. But seriously,” he says, looking between them, “what is this? Working on a group project?” There is all sorts of suggestion in his voice that makes Darcy twitch uncomfortably.

“No,” she says, forcing out a laugh. “He just won’t stop following me. He wants to know how _Pride and Prejudice_ ends, but he’s too lazy to read the book.”

“See. Asshole.”

“Yeah,” Darcy agrees, pretending not to notice how still Bucky has become. 

Sam walks around them. “Well, don’t give him the answer. And if you do, make some shit up.”

“Will do.”

She follows Sam with her eyes and only starts walking again once he’s disappeared round a corner. Bucky trails behind her. Way behind her. She reaches the AV room a full thirty seconds before him. 

She doesn’t have time to put her backpack down before Bucky speaks. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, staying by the door. 

There is confrontation in his words. An argument brews. 

Darcy turns slowly to face him. She leans against the small table, struggling to keep her voice level. “What was what?”

“That lame excuse you gave Sam. Don’t play dumb, Darcy. You’re too fucking smart for that.”

“The rule,” she says. “I’m just following the rule.”

“Oh, fuck the rule!” he fumes. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“Admit that you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

_What_? “What? That’s not it at all, Bucky. I swear.”

“Don’t lie to me. It’s so fucking obvious now. That’s why you’ve never wanted to go out with me. Why you’re always so nervous someone is gonna find out we’re screwing. You’re embarrassed by me,” he says, his momentum rising. 

Darcy scrambles for a response. “I’m not,” is all she finds.

“You are. You’re Elizabeth and I’m Mr. Darcy, and you’re busy listening to assholes like Sam who say I’m a bad person. But I’m here, Darcy, and I’m telling you they’re wrong,” he says, the words coming out tight. As if his throat is closing. As if he can’t bring himself to speak. 

“I know,” she tries, but he’s on a roll, and he interrupts, saying, “I may not be Steve Rogers, but I’m not fucking made of stone. I feel things.”

“God, I fucking know that you feel things!” Darcy explodes, stepping away from the desk. “Do you know how I know that?” 

“Enlighten me.”

Darcy rubs the place where her glasses touch her nose. Sweat gathers on her fingers. “This is all your fault, Bucky.”

“Jesus, Darcy, just tell me what it is you know!”

“What I know? I know you screwed this whole fucking thing up!”

“How is any of this my fault? What did I do?”

“You fell in love with me!” she shouts, and she watches Bucky deflate before her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to do that—this was just meant to be fun. But you couldn’t just have fun. You fell in love with me,” she says, her fire dampening, “and I let you. I should have stopped this years ago. But I didn’t, and now look where we are.” She’s crying. Goddammit, she’s crying in front of Bucky Barnes. 

How did this happen? How did she let him get so far under her skin? It’s like he’s embedded himself inside of her. Inked himself on her flesh. 

She can’t breathe. Staring at the floor, Darcy steps forward on shaking legs and, careful—so, so careful—not to touch him, because if she touches him she knows she will combust, she exits the room. Emptiness floods her as she hears the door close behind her. Only random students remain in the hall, and she keeps her head lowered so as to hide her wet face. Feeling sick to her stomach, she walks blindly in the direction of her locker.

“Darcy!”

_Shit_. Lifting her head, Darcy stops just short of clashing into Mr. Odinson. “Hey, Mr. O,” she says. She really must be screwed up. She’s never once called him that. 

His expression moves from happy to concerned the longer he looks at her. “Darcy, what’s happened?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she insists, but as she’s doing so, the door to the AV room opens just down the hall. She and Mr. Odinson spot Bucky storming in the other direction. 

When she looks back at Mr. Odinson, he closes his eyes and nods his head in understanding. “Ah,” he says, “lover’s tiff.”

She laughs him off. A hiccup interrupts the lame sound. “No. It’s not like that at all,” she says. Reaching beneath her glasses, she wipes her thumbs along her lower lash line. 

Mr. Odinson reaches a long arm out and touches Darcy’s shoulder. “I know those tears, Darcy.”

“Trust me, Mr. Odinson, you don’t.” She steps aside. “I have to get home. See you Tuesday.”

He says goodbye as she speeds away, bypassing her locker and heading straight for the main entrance. Doing all she can to avoid Bucky, she walks the long way to the student lot. Inside her car, Darcy sits in silence. No. Not silence. Her sobs are louder than any music she could play. 

Eventually, the tears stop. But only when she’s too exhausted to cry anymore. Switching on the engine, her insides hollow, Darcy drives home. 

 

**.**

_and what difference does it make_

_when this love is over_

**.**

 

The fight is bigger this time. Louder. Playing The Beatles only drowns out so much. Her parents are lucky they live in a detached house. The apartment they had when she was little had the thinnest walls, and when they would argue, one of their neighbours, from upstairs or downstairs or from the left or the right, would bang on the walls, the ceiling, the floor to get them to stop. Afraid of being kicked out for excessive noise complaints, they would drop the squabble.

No-one is there to stop them now. Darcy has no control over their fights. She doesn’t think they do, either. It’s just their default at this point. Pushing all thoughts about everything that isn’t schoolwork out of her mind, Darcy settles at her desk. It’s pushed right against her bedroom window. The one-level house looks out over a suburban street. She’s always felt safe here. Even with the fighting constantly in the background. 

As the early autumn sun dips behind the turning leaves, Darcy is disturbed by a clinking at her window. Nudging her glasses up her nose, she looks out. Bucky Barnes stands in her front garden. He’s changed into gym clothes. Unsurprising. He goes to the gym whenever he’s angry. Says it helps stop him from punching the people who piss him off. He tosses something towards the house. A pebble ricochets off the glass. 

Darcy’s heart drops to her stomach. Bile coats her tongue. She stares at him blankly, and he notices her looking just as he throws another pebble like this is some fucking romantic comedy. He’s upset. Through the glass, she senses sadness rolling off of him. Dropping his handful of rocks, he approaches the window. Their eyes meet and she wordlessly gets to her feet, unlocking the window and pushing it upwards.

“Can I come in?” he asks. She nods, and he climbs on top of her desk, careful not to disturb her work. And then he’s in her room. And her parents are still arguing in the kitchen. Bucky rubs the back of his neck before shutting the window. “Thanks.”

“Look,” they say at the same time. Bucky nods towards her, and she says, loud enough to be heard over _Revolver_ , making sure to keep eye contact, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhales loudly. He clearly wasn’t expecting that. 

But she’s been wanting to say it all evening. So, there it is, and she has to admit it feels good. These last few days, she’s been thinking up a way to separate herself from Bucky. To get him out of her system permanently. But the second she got home, all she wanted to do was call him. Hear his voice. And she realised that cutting herself off from Bucky isn’t going to fix anything. 

Her apology floats between them for a moment.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” he says incredulously.

“I do.”

Bucky moves closer. 

See, it isn’t him she’s afraid of. Not his affection for her, or the way she feels when she gets a proper look at him. Like the clouds clearing past the moon—light, finally, in the darkness. It’s the fact that if she dives in, she’s counting on him to save her from drowning. And what if, one day, he decides he’s too tired to keep both of them afloat? 

“I’m mad,” he says. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to get mad at you, but I actually think I’ve been mad for a while.”

She has to laugh, even though it hurts to hear. “That sounds about right.”

“Say it again.”

“Bucky,” she says, complying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry”—

He kisses her before she can say it another time. Closes the gap between them, holds her in his arms, and kisses her hard. Like it’s a punishment. Which, she supposes, it could be. 

Blood rushes in her ears, drowning out the sounds of her parents. Drowning out the Beatles as “She Said She Said” starts playing. Without giving her time to protest—not that she’s planning to—Bucky rips her pyjama top off and buries his face against her neck, travelling down to her breasts. She watches her glasses fly in the air. His stubble scrapes her, turns her pink, but the slight pain is welcome. 

He kisses her again as she starts tearing at his clothes. He tastes of apples. And sweat. And the instant he pushes her away to finish stripping both himself and her, she sees the fire burning holes in his blue eyes. Dilated pupils bear into her soul. 

He stalks towards her like a hungry beast, and when he reaches her, he turns her so her back clashes against his chest. Then she’s on the floor, on her knees, and he’s behind her. She hears the condom wrapper, and, like Pavlov’s dog, is instantly responsive. Staring ahead at her chest-of-drawers, she welcomes Bucky inside of her with a low groan. 

It is hard. And rough, and the harder and rougher he moves into her, the more she accepts that this is fucking. Not merely sex. Not anything near lovemaking. 

Bucky collapses on top of her from the effort, pressing her torso into the carpet. His cheek rests against her shoulder, and he bites down. And for the first time, his rushed, powerful movements slow before she’s reached the finish line. His strangled moan sends chills down her spine, but his climax only reduces his speed for a split second. Turning his head to whisper things in her ear, his hand snakes its way between her thighs. Usually, this does nothing for her, but she is a live wire tonight, shooting off sparks at the slightest touch, and she is over the edge in no time.

Together, panting, they sag to the floor and detach, and she feels empty in a new way. Not in a guilty way. But it’s as if she’s lost something that has been holding her back. 

Bucky sits up. He frowns. “I—I’m sorry,” he says, and she wants to smile and tell him not to apologise, but he’s standing and dressing before she can formulate a coherent sentence. Without her glasses on, he’s only a shadow.

“Wait,” she says, confused. That was makeup sex, wasn’t it? Not goodbye sex. 

_Right, Bucky_?

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, disappearing out of her window. He blends in with the darkness.

Darcy sits against her chest-of-drawers and stares at the open window. Eventually, when the chilled air reaches her, she gets back into her PJs and goes to the bathroom to shower. She doesn’t really want to. She wants to dwell in this sticky mess for as long as possible. To torture herself for messing things up worse than Bucky. But that’s how women get UTIs, so she undresses again and steps underneath the spray. 

Soaping her body, she examines her raw, pink knees and bites her lip. There really is no guilt. Only a release. As if she’s finally let go of something. She has to let Bucky know.

 

**.**

_the last time that you touched me_

_oh, will wonders ever cease_

_blessed be the mystery of love_

**.**

 

Autumn has officially hit Brooklyn. Dead leaves coat the sidewalks, crunching and crumbling under Darcy’s feet as she walks through the student lot. A cold drizzle of rain has just started, and she quickens her pace to avoid the oncoming downpour. The heated hallways are bustling. Midterm exams are approaching, and everyone is scrambling to prepare. Darcy scrapes past students on her way to her locker. 

Natasha is waiting for her, chewing a piece of gum. “There you are,” she says, popping a bubble.

“Here I am.” Darcy twists the lock and opens her locker door. “What’s up?” 

“What’s up with you? You look exhausted. And kind of sad.” 

“I didn’t sleep last night.” She sighs, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it in her locker. She gathers the books for her first two periods. 

Natasha eyes her with sympathy. “Your parents?”

“My parents.” Sure. Why not. There’s no harm in lying. There is, however, probably loads of harm in telling the truth. What would be Nat’s reaction to finding out Darcy has been sleeping with Bucky Barnes since the tenth grade?

“Well . . . do you want me to help get your mind off them?” Natasha sounds thoroughly ecstatic, which can mean only one thing. 

“Would you do that by talking about Steve?” 

“Maybe.”

Darcy shuts her locker and leans against it. “Then go ahead.”

Natasha gets extra close. She bumps their foreheads together and says, “We slept together over the weekend.”

“You did?” Darcy’s eyes go wide. Maybe Steve isn’t the angelic boy she thought he was. “How was it?”

“Heaven.”

Okay, maybe he _is_ the angelic boy. “Was it his first time?” she asks.

Natasha crinkles her nose and straightens. “Going all the way, yeah.”

“Wow.” Go Natasha. “Good for you two. Now, instead of picturing my parents attacking each other like duelling lions, I’m picturing you and Steve Rogers getting down and dirty on your bed.”

“Ew.” Natasha playfully slaps Darcy’s shoulder. The warning bell rings. “Well, I’ll see you at lunch. Be good.”

Darcy starts walking the other way. “I think I should be telling you to be good!”

She isn’t really thinking of Natasha and Steve to distract herself. She’s not thinking about them at all. Rather, whenever her eyes close, she sees Bucky. Feels him. It’s been enough to save her from the hellish environment at home over the weekend. Instead of worrying about her parents killing each other over the amount of stamps in the house, she’s worried she’ll never talk to Bucky again.

She needs to talk to him. 

Now that she’s awakened herself to this side of their relationship—the serious side, the no-going-back side—it’s getting harder and harder to think of anything but Bucky. This is another reason, a small reason, she’s been so against being anything more than friends with benefits. Hopefully not seeing him during school hours will help as opposed to hinder. 

By the end of the day, Darcy has decided that no Bucky is bad. Throughout her classes, she finds herself solely focused on him. After a teacher finishes making a point, for example. He has taken up permanent residence in her mind. And for once he has heeded her warning and not texted her during school hours. And extended it to not texting after school hours. She stares at her phone on the journey to her car, constantly wiping icy rain from the screen. 

Unlocking her car, she climbs inside and tosses her phone and backpack to the passenger seat. She sticks the key in the ignition and turns. _Click click click_. Darcy’s stomach rolls over. She tries again. _Click click click_. 

The battery is dead. 

“Fuck!” she screams, banging closed fists against the steering wheel. No amount of restraint can stop the torrent of tears from pouring out her eyes. 

Popping the bonnet, Darcy gets out of the car and lifts the hood. Freezing rain whips against her body, lacerating her hands and cheeks. Thankfully no-one else is in the student lot to witness her shouting at her car. “You piece of shit,” she yells, knowing full well the battery died because she forgot to turn off her lights. And her car is so ancient and shitty that it doesn’t have a warning siren go off when she does such a stupid thing. 

She doesn’t have a ride. Natasha left with Steve ages ago. Her parents are both at work. And she’s a loser with no other friends.

Looks like she’s walking home. Darcy bows her head in defeat, a chill settling in her bones.

“Car trouble?”

Darcy whips her head up so fast she almost bangs it against the bonnet. Squinting in the rain to see into the car that’s pulled up beside her, she chokes back another round of sobs when she spots Bucky Barnes through the half-rolled down drivers’ side window. 

“No,” she says sarcastically, “I just really love the rain.”

Bucky jerks his head. “Get in.” Darcy hesitates. “Darcy, get in.”

“Fine.” She slams her bonnet and grabs the things from her passenger seat.

Bucky’s car is warm. Heat blasts through the vents. Sufjan Stevens blasts through the speakers. He turns the volume down once she’s buckled. 

She refuses to look at him. Staring straight ahead, she watches raindrops clink against the windscreen.

“Do you remember,” he says, and the sound of his voice is almost enough to turn her head, “the day you played ‘Mystery of Love’ for me?” 

Yes. She does. Of course she does. She remembers every fucking encounter she’s ever had with Bucky.

It was a couple of months after they started this fucked up thing. She had made a playlist—she always had a playlist for their encounters—and this was the final song. Both had finished when the track started, so they laid together on her bed beneath the covers, coated in sweat and post-orgasmic bliss, and were able to listen.

A beautiful song. Sorrowful. Hopeful.

The next time she saw him, he told her he had spent almost all of his disposable income on Sufjan Stevens’ albums. She had been thrilled and slightly put off. What 16-year-old has a disposable income? 

“Mystery of Love” isn’t playing for them now. It is “John My Beloved,” and the white noise in the background of the song syncs with the rain. 

“Yes,” she says. She chances a look at him, and regrets it instantly. Hurt blends in with the different specks of blue. “Bucky, I”—

He shakes his head. “No, don’t say anything. Let’s just . . . let’s go.” 

_Okay_ , she thinks to herself. She can drop it for today. But soon, she’ll need to speak to him.

They drive in silence. Brooklyn traffic extends the drive by several minutes, and they’ve reached the last song on _Carrie and Lowell_ by the time he pulls up to her house. 

“Thanks,” she says. She grips her backpack so tight her knuckles go white. “For the ride. I’ll bring something to charge the battery tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Knowing she won’t get anything more out of him, she opens the door and reenters the rain. 

_This is the exact plot to that book_ Flipped, she realises once she’s safe inside her bedroom. Crouching at her bookshelf, she pulls the paperback from its slot. She hasn’t read it since she was in elementary school, but she recalls the events clearly.

Girl likes boy. Boy doesn’t like girl. Girl stops liking boy. Boy starts liking girl.

Bucky likes Darcy. Darcy doesn’t like Bucky. Bucky stops liking Darcy. Darcy starts liking Bucky.

Smacking the book against her forehead, she falls back on the carpet. She is so fucked.

 

**.**

_white noise, what an awful sound_

_fumbling by rogue river_

_feel my feet upon the ground_

_hand of god deliver me_

**.**

 

He wasn’t in English again. Which was no fun. They finished _Pride and Prejudice_ and she didn’t have anyone there to mention the unavoidably sexist way the book ends. Mr. Odinson likes when he isn’t there. He thinks Darcy likes it too. And she used to, but now that she’s entered her own fictional world, she doesn’t like it anymore. 

Natasha follows her to the student lot after most of their peers have left. Steve holds her close. 

Has he seen Bucky today? 

“Are you sure you don’t want Steve to drive you home?”

“I’m more than happy to, Darcy.”

“Really, guys,” she says, thankful that the rain stopped that morning. Now all she has to do is wait for the portable charger to juice up her battery. “I’m fine waiting here.”

“And you don’t want me to jumpstart you?” Steve is helpful to a fault. The human embodiment of Fix-It Felix Jr. 

“I want to do it this way,” Darcy insists.

Natasha rubs Steve’s stomach. His shirt rides up and Darcy catches a glimpse of just how jacked he is. It’s almost sickening. “Darcy’s an independent woman, Steve. She’ll do this herself even if it kills her.”

She smiles, because it’s half-true. “Thank you for trying, though,” she says to Steve. “I mean that.” 

The couple leave, and Darcy sticks her battery with wires. The charger switches on noisily. It sounds like a buzzsaw. Snarl and rattle. Snarl and rattle. After thirty minutes, she’s finished her her math homework and checks the battery’s progress. Not quite there. 

Looking out at the bare lot, she spots a car. No ordinary car. Bucky’s car. He stares at her through his windscreen. Even from across the vast expanse of blacktop, she feels his eyes burning through her. Shutting her door, she marches in his direction. She almost expects him to drive off. But he doesn’t. 

He rolls down the window as she approaches. “Just making sure you can get home,” he says.

Darcy’s chest tightens. “I told you I would bring something to charge the battery.”

“I know, but . . .” He trails off. He looks unkempt. His hair is out of place. His stubble is thicker than she’s ever seen it. “I should get to work. Get home safe, Darcy.”

“Oh, okay.” She steps back. “Bye, Bucky,” she says, waving foolishly as he rolls the window up. 

He speeds out of the lot. Slowly, she walks back to her car. The battery’s fully charged. Lugging the charger into her boot, she shuts it and sits at the wheel. 

_Why didn’t I say it then_? she asks herself. 

Later, when the sky is dark blue and filled with clusters of stars, Darcy has reached her boiling point. Her dad broke a plate at dinner, and they’ve been going at it like cats and dogs for two hours. She bets all they taste is blood after so many years of shouting. Sneaking out of her window, Darcy, dressed in the red long-sleeved shirt tucked into a jean skirt, gets into her car. The engine roars to life. She plugs in her phone and sets her playlist to shuffle.

It’s a sign. Or nothing more than a coincidence. But isn’t that what all signs are? Coincidences people believe mean something.

“Mystery of Love.”

Darcy knows where she’s going. Putting her car in drive, she heads for the city. 

Bucky’s apartment is hidden in a rough part of Brooklyn. He told her the address once, and she’s been keeping it locked in her head for a moment like this. At the intercom, she doesn’t see his family name. Only his. Bucky Barnes. She pushes the button and it vibrates her finger. Her heart bounds along at three times its normal speed while she waits.

“Yes?” comes his voice over the intercom.

Darcy bursts to life. “Bucky. It’s me,” she says. Then, just in case, “Darcy.”

“I know your voice,” he says. She knows his too. He doesn’t sound happy. “What are you doing all the way out here? There are monsters about.”

“Let me inside, then.” _Please_. But she won’t beg. This has to be his decision. 

Either it’s his desire to see her or his desire to not see her murdered that leads to him buzzing her in. She smiles in success, nerves snaking their way through her veins. Opening the door before it locks again, she enters the building. He lives on the top floor. He lives on the top floor, and the elevator is broken. Darcy climbs six flights of stairs. By the time she reaches his level, she is a damp mess. A damp mess with no time to fix her skewed glasses, because Bucky is waiting with his door open. 

The first time she saw Bucky Barnes, back in the seventh grade, the crush she developed was instantaneous. For weeks, all she could think about before drifting off to sleep was the way his eyes lit up when he smiled. Before she ever spoke to him, she had decided he was the boy for her. But then during English class they were paired for a discussion, and she quickly confirmed he was just another lousy kid with an inappropriate sense of humour. 

She still thought he was pretty, though. So, when the tenth grade party rolled around and he sat next to her, and the moonlight made him look like the sky, she was secretly thrilled to be kissing him. 

He isn’t just pretty anymore. He’s beautiful. Deep beneath the surface of his skin lies a beautiful man whose heart she has surely broken.

“I see,” she wheezes, bending at the waist to clutch her scabbed knees, “why you work out so much now.” Glancing up at him, she sees his face remain neutral. Darcy straightens. She tries evening out her breaths. “Can I come in?”

He’s silent for a moment, but he nods and leads her into his apartment. _His_ apartment. 

It’s a studio. A single bed is pushed against the wall to her right. Straight ahead is the bathroom, bordered on either side by a wardrobe and bookshelf. The kitchen to the left is cut off from the rest of the room by a half wall. There are only two countertops, and the single window in the space is above the sink. The stove looks ancient. He has no kitchen table, or any table, for that matter. His television is shaped like a box and sits atop a nightstand at the foot of his queen-sized bed. The only light permeating the apartment comes from a three-headed lamp in the centre of the room.

Pale yellow coats the walls, complementing the bright egg yolk rug spread out across the majority of the floor. 

This is a bachelor pad. 

“You live alone?” she says. Behind her, the door closes, and she senses Bucky right behind her. His breath moves the baby hairs on top of her head. 

“Yeah.”

Turning, Darcy looks up at him and frowns. “Why?”

“Your parents fight,” he says, and she almost asks him how he knows before she remembers the other night. He might not have said anything when he snuck through her window, but he would have to be deaf not to have heard. Instead, she affirms his statement with a brief tilt of her head. “Mine did too. Only it got to the point where I had to leave. So, I got emancipated at 16. Moved in here with the money I’d been saving my whole life.” 

His body sags as he speaks, as if he’s been waiting to tell her this for a long time. 

He probably has. And it’s her fault that he hasn’t. 

_I don’t want to know anything about you_ , she said that first night in the pool house. _And you won’t know anything about me_. 

Sad, beautiful Bucky. 

“I know, it’s depressing,” he says with a sombre laugh. He rubs his jaw. “But it’s not actually that bad anymore. I’ve gotten used to it. And it’s not like I’m alone or anything. Steve checks in on me every weekend, and his mom, Sarah, comes by with groceries when I can’t make it to the store because of my shift schedule. And we have the guys here a lot. So, I’m rarely ever lonely.”

“It’s so clean in here.” She doesn’t know what compels her to say it. It’s the dumbest thing she’s ever said aloud in her life. 

Bucky laughs again, and there’s more lightness in it. “Yeah. I like to clean. It helps clear my head.”

“I bet your head’s been pretty stuffed lately.” He nods, his eyes going to the floor. “And,” she continues, tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, “I bet that I’m part of the reason why.”

Another nod. He looks up at her. With straight puppy dog eyes that sear her flesh. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

She winces. “That’s why I’m here. To say sorry. For everything,” she stutters. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Darcy, you don’t”—

—“No, don’t say that. I do. I really, really do. I was horrible to you the other day in the AV room.” She laughs bitterly. “I’ve been horrible to you for the past two years, actually.”

“You really haven’t”—

—“Please, Bucky, let me get through this,” she begs, her eyes welling. _Dammit_ , _stop fucking crying_. She never cries this much. Not even when she’s on her period. Not even when the dog dies in the movie. 

“What is this spell you have me under?” she asks rhetorically. “No, never-mind. Look, Bucky, I’m sorry for everything. I can’t even begin to name the things I’m sorry for, so this is just a big blanket apology. And a bit of a confession. Because this isn’t nothing.” She motions between them. Her breaths come out as if inside her lungs is a toddler banging haphazardly on a toy piano. “This is something. Something good, and I don’t want to lose it because I’m too stupid to admit that I don’t want to lose it.”

She takes a bold step forward and presses her palms flat against his chest. His heart pounds against her fingertips. Tilting her head almost all the way back, their eyes lock. He looks frightened. She has no doubt she looks like a madwoman. 

“You are so much more than I ever could have imagined. More important, more special, more lovely. Kinder, braver, and on and on and on and on.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’ve been scared of. Well, that’s a lie,” she admits. “I’m scared of this going away.”

“It’s not going to,” he says, taking her wrists in his hands. “You were right, Darcy, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time when you didn’t know, so you can you imagine how much more I’m going to love you now that you know?”

Oh, this makes her feel sick to her stomach. It’s unnatural. But his words sink into her pores and hydrate her soul, and she has to admit it to herself that she belongs here. With Bucky. 

Bucky, who likes her despite of her insecurities. Despite her obsession with books. With the Beatles. 

Bucky, who loves her. 

“I’m in,” she says, breaking out into a terrified smile. 

Bucky doesn’t respond. Not with words. He holds her tight and kisses her softly. But it doesn’t take long for the kiss to become urgent. Their clothes melt in the heat of the room and he guides her towards the bed. He lays back, and she kneels over him, taking him in her hand. A hiss escapes his lips. She bends forward and swallows it, sinking down. There is no soundtrack. Only their voices.

It is a slow movement. They are gentle waves floating towards the edge of a waterfall, lapping over each other, melting into one another. Together, they reach the waterfall, and together they plunge into the rocky deep. 

Darcy wakes in Bucky’s arms to sunlight coming in streams into the apartment. Her first thought is that she’s definitely late for school, but her second thought is that she doesn’t care. She wants to be here, resting against Bucky. Lifting her head off of his chest, she finds him watching at her, a smirk on his lips. She mirrors his expression.

“Good morning,” she croaks.

“Morning. I’m afraid we’ve missed first and second period.”

She closes her eyes and settles back down. “I don’t give a shit. Not today.”

Bucky’s fingers dance along Darcy’s back. She shivers. “Okay, if we’re not going to school, then what are doing?” 

She knows he’s worried she’ll want to leave. He’s worried this was a dream. Now it’s time to get back to reality. 

But she won’t leave him. 

“How about breakfast at the diner near school?” she suggests.

She hears his breath hitch. 

“The one near school? Where any of our classmates could walk in?” 

“The very same.” Darcy rests her chin on his chest. He kisses her forehead and grins. “Yeah?”

He kisses her again, this time on the mouth. “Yes,” he says, pulling away.

They dress without showering, but she insists they put on deodorant to save the other customers. Outside, the air is the same as it was yesterday. Chilled. Crisp. Leaves float in the breeze as a warning of the impending winter.  She thinks of all of the things she wants to tell him. About her. About her family. And she comes up with questions to ask Bucky. Trivial things and personal things. When they get to the diner, she'll finally ask him about his name. 

Outside is the same, but everything feels different to Darcy as she walks towards Bucky’s car holding his hand. Everything feels better. It feels right. 

 

**.**

_shall i sleep within your bed_

_river of unhappiness_

_hold your hands upon my head_

_'til i breathe my last breath_  

**.**

 

 


End file.
